


Skyfall Deliverance

by scratchienails



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Enemies to Lovers, Extreme violence in later chapters, Human Experimentation, Italian Mafia, Katekyo Hitman Reborn Au, M/M, Magical Mafia, Torture, Violence, we're talking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-05-17 19:18:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14837615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scratchienails/pseuds/scratchienails
Summary: KHR AU.Who would win: the world's largest criminal organization with a technological empire dominating over four continents, a rebel faction that abandoned the Code and established a Family of near unparalleled raw power, or a runaway experiment turned rogue vigilante with a can of hair spray and a blood-thirsty vendetta?Ryoken thinks the answer should be obvious, but he keeps getting distracted by those damn green eyes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Finally here with the full first chapter. Before we start, some warnings:  
> While the first chapter is very tame, this story will include graphic depictions of violence against pretty much all featured characters. Female characters are not excluded from this. Likewise, everyone is going to be way more violent and dangerous than their canon counterparts. Also, this story will feature assault of all kinds, kids being tortured and brainwashed, human experimentation, vulgar language and behavior, and a general absence of morals. If any of this makes you uncomfortable, hit the back button. Rating may also go up later on, depending on how brave I am. That means sexy times.
> 
> Also, characters will be using Dying-will Flames, which are the basis of a magic system. There are seven different types of flames, each with unique abilities and properties: Sky, Cloud, Mist, Rain, Storm, Sun, and Lightning. Dying-will Flames are the manifestation of someone's will to live/desperation/determination. These Flames are used to fight and power weapons and machines, and can open Boxes that release Box Animals, which use the user's flames to assist in battle. Mafia Families in KHR have Guardians associated with each Flame type, with the leader using Sky flames and the others dedicated to the leader's protection and fighting for the family. 
> 
> Now, let's have fun!

**_Naples, Italy_ **

**_00:46:32, June 2, 20X9_ **

**_Designation: Bessho Ema, aka GHOST GIRL_ **

**_Affiliation: N/A_ **

**_Occupation: Mercenary_ **

**_Flame Type: Mist_ **

The cobbled streets are washed grey with thick, heavy fog. The moisture clings uncomfortably to her skin, mixing with sweat and running in rivulets down her face. Tucking a damp lock of lavender hair behind her ear, Ema slouches against the brick wall behind her and tries not to smell her own sweat. It’s unusually hot for a summer night in Naples, and the humidity is so high she can taste moisture on her tongue with every breath. 

Her clothes stick awkwardly to her skin, but Ema doesn’t dare move more than necessary to fix them. She may be well hidden, settled on the roof of an unassuming apartment building, but the less Flames she has to waste on hiding her presence, the better.  She has already poured more of her Flames and energy than advisable into opening eight Boxes, releasing eight indigo fireflies into the night air. Her little will-o-wisps are already spread throughout the streets, cloaked in obscuring Mist Flames. So long as she maintains the illusion, they will go unseen. 

And Ema  _ desperately  _ needs them to go unseen.

Down below, on the streets, white-coated men are moving in precise patrols, encircling the neighborhood and closing in their unfortunate prey. It's an immense operation, justified only by the reputation and abilities of their target: one of the seven top hitmen in the world. Ema has no intentions of being caught in their net too, but it still grates on her pride to be cowering in a corner while they claim the prize. Logically, she knows there’s little she can do now, not with Hanoi thugs overwhelming the city streets, besides gather what little intel she can. 

Through her Box Animals, she watches the patrols pick up speed, new urgency spreading through the ranks. Flames are starting to fly, fires of all colors bursting forth across the neighborhood, but for the most part they’re weak, amateurish. But there are exceptions, and those make Ema’s blood run cold. Hanoi’s upper echelon has arrived, and among them is a tall man with hair that matches the hazy fire rising from his rings: Faust, the Second Hanoi Mist Guardian. 

Cursing, Ema pulls her will-o-wisps back from  _ that _ particular area. Just her luck that Hanoi’s illusion specialist, one of the few in the organization that could match her skills, would be here. Thankfully, he hasn't noticed her presence yet, clearly focused on organizing his men and constructing a illusory trap for their target. He's skilled, creating vivid illusions of walls and blocked exits in what should be escape routes, and nearly doubling the Hanoi ranks with mirror images. 

But their prey isn’t going down easy; more than any other, blazing violet Flames are erupting all over the neighborhood, startlingly strong and clear. They overwhelm the weaklings easily, sending them skittering back to the perimeter lines with vicious burns, if they escape at all. But the target seems panicked and confused, easily falling for the mirages that herd him into the neighborhood's center, where building give way to a little park of grass and shrubs. 

For a little while, Ema believes that the target still has a chance of escape. 

And then bright orange lights up the night sky, illuminating an immense creature of leathery skin and burning amber sweeping over the city with a bone-shaking roar. The dragon dives down upon the city like a meteorite, and for a brief, horrible moment, Ema catches sight of the man perched on its back. 

His hair is as red as his coat is white, a porcelain mask concealing his features, and in the split second before he disappears behind buildings, descending upon the clearing where the target has been corraled, Ema knows their eyes connect.

She’s been seen, the light of the fire burning away the darkness that had obscured her from above. 

Lurching to her feet and ignoring her stiff joints, Ema dashes for the edge of the roof and shoots her grappling hook at the balcony of a building across the street. The running jump she takes is awkward, but it’s no time for perfect form. 

Behind her, amber Sky Flames are overtaking the Naples neighborhood, crashing into the violet Flames and consuming them hungrily. There’s no point in risking her life by staying, not when she already knows exactly how this is going to end.  Crashing through a window at the bottom of her swing and feeling the horrible rush of shattered glass, Ema fumbles for her phone. She types as she gets her feet back under her, shaking glass from her clothes and hair and nursing some nasty cuts, and only briefly measures her surroundings: some kind of lobby, with a hall leading further into the building. As she dashes for the far end, she hears shouting behind her and knows she’s being pursued.

Breath coming in harsh rasps, she plugs in a recipient and hits send as she kicks down a door, all too aware of the heavy footfalls behind her. 

_ To: ZA _

_ From: GG <3 _

_ Hanoi have captured the Cloud Arcobaleno.  _

* * *

 

**_Den City, Japan_ **

**_9:27:12, June 12, 20X9_ **

**_Designation: Zaizen Akira_ **

**_Affiliation: Sol_ **

**_Occupation: Head of Security, Capo_ **

**_Flame Type: Lightning_ **

He checks his phone for the third time since he stepped into the Holo Room, but the screen is empty of everything but the time. There’s still no new communications from Ema.  Hiding his anxiety, Akira tucks his phone away back in his pocket and tries to refocus. He has more than just Ema’s safety to worry about right now, considering its been over a week since the report came in and he still has nothing to show for it.

For more than a week he's been trying to establish contact with her using every available line and method, but it has all been futile. And while it's not unusual for Ema to ignore him and make him squirm, this level of evasion is unthinkable. Whatever happened in Naples, Ema had been caught up in it, and now she had gone silent. 

Leaving Akira to report to his superiors with next to nothing. 

And just like that, he’s on a beach. Miami comes to him in a flurry of pixels and shimmering light, until he seems to be standing in the shade of a palm tree, the only refuge from the brilliant yellow sunlight. A beach chair is settled in the sand, a buxom woman lounging on it with a cocktail in one hand. 

There are somethings Akira has gotten used to about his job: the killing, the spying, the holograms. He’ll probably never get used to seeing his direct superior in a bikini. 

“Zaizen.” Queen takes a look at him over the edge of her designer sunglasses, displeased as ever. “Your report?”

Akira keeps his expression blank. “We have no new information about the situation with the Cloud Arcobaleno. The location of Hanoi’s Headquarters remains unknown.” It’s certainly not good news, but he suppose its expected. Ema was— _is_ —the best informant they know, and not even she had found the Hanoi’s nest. All she had been able to do was place it in the region of Den City.

Queen’s mouth twists down, her lipstick accentuating the harsh expression. “And the other Arcobaleno?”

Akira stands straighter. This, at least, is less damning news. Of the seven greatest hitmen in the world, the Cloud Arcobaleno was undeniably the weakest and least capable. Even though he had fallen, it was unlikely the others would follow. “The Cloud Arcobaleno must have warned the others somehow; they seem to have gone completely to ground. We have no leads on any of their current whereabouts.” Wherever the other six Arcobaleno had gone, they were well hidden. The seven of the rainbow, said to be the most powerful Flame wielders of their generation, rarely encountered one another and hid even more rarely. Until Hanoi consolidated so much power, there was no need for them to hide. “It seems Hanoi is facing the same difficulties.”

“ _ No news is good news. _ ” Queen says, the English phrase running of her tongue seamlessly. “But they already have one.”

“Yes,” Akira says, and the loss of both his best independent agent and the Arcobaleno she had been tracking still stings. “But I think the situation is better than we initially believed.”

Queen gives him another look, severe and uncompromising. “Elaborate.”

“All reports suggest that the Hanoi currently have no active Cloud Guardian, which has led me to believe that there’s the possibility that they are unable to appoint a new one.” Overtime, the Hanoi Second’s Guardians had been phased out and replaced with the younger Third generation. Only three of the Second’s original Guardians still remain active, and even their days are likely numbered. But there has been no sign of a Cloud Guardian in either generation. “I believe their Cloud Ring is missing.” Rings are essential to the role of a Guardian, as the conduit of Flames and the primary activator of Flame-based weapons and skills. Any Guardian worth keeping has Flames strong enough to burn through most market rings, like those that shined on Akira’s fingers. The Hanoi rings, however, are among the three sets of rings with the highest quality and longest history. They aren't just heirlooms: they’re irreplaceable weapons. The loss of even a single ring from the set of seven would be devastating. 

A blue, jeweled ring of similar quality and history on Queen’s finger catches the light as she takes a sip from her drink. 

“And what is the basis of this conclusion?” She asks, watching him with measuring eyes.

Akira swallows. He knows better than to bring this up, but he does so anyway. “The Lost Incident.” The words come out steadier than he thought they would. “Ten years ago, during the culling—"

“Silence.” Queen cuts him off, her voice losing its lethargy as she sweeps off her chair and advances on him. Without her clothes, he can see the fierce lines of her frame, the muscle filling out her curvaceous form. It takes all Akira’s willpower not to shift on his feet and give away his discomfort. “Do not speak of matters before your time, Zaizen.” She’s glaring at him, and he lowers his gaze to the sand beneath his polished work shoes.

“My apologies.”

Queen clicks her tongue, and he looks up to catch her gaze once more. She stares expectantly at his face. “If you truly believe this theory of yours, prove it. Find the missing Ring and retrieve it.” Akira straightens further, feeling a little rush of triumph. It’s a tall order, but it’s the one he’s been hoping for. “If whatever plans the Hanoi have for the Arcobaleno require it, then we cannot allow it to fall back in their hands.” Clearly noting his well-hidden enthusiasm, Queen’s mouth once again dips down and she brings a perfectly manicured hand up to her lips. Unsubtly, she kisses the ring on her finger, and is shines with rippling cyan Flames. “Failure is, of course, unacceptable.”

Akira swallows, recognizing the threat. “Understood.” 

The beach disappears as quickly as it shimmered into sight, leaving Akira once again alone in the Holo Room.

Or at least, he’s supposed to be alone. 

 

* * *

 

**_Den City, Japan_ **

**_11:24:33, June 12, 20X9_ **

**_Designation: Kogami Ryoken, aka REVOLVER_ **

**_Affiliation: Hanoi_ **

**_Occupation: Underboss_ **

**_Flame Type: Sky_ **

Den City, Ryoken sometimes thinks, is a putrid blemish on the map for a place with such natural beauty. As far as modern coastal cities go, it’s a gem, with incredible views and great examples of the heights of human accomplishment. But it has just as many examples of human sin; for all its technological advancements, its clean streets, and its renewable energy, Den City lives up to its name by being a den of crime, vice, and hate. 

And Ryoken is expected to bring it to heel before he ascends to the headship. His first independent assignment since he was officially named the third heir of the Hanoi Famiglia. He would solidify his power here, and in turn overturn the strangling grip of the Sol Famiglia’s empire. First, Den City, then the rest of Japan, until Sol was banished back to the west it came from.

It’s an ambitious vision, laid out for Ryoken before he was even born. But since the start of their mission ten years ago, plenty of unexpected obstacles have arisen: rebels, vigilantes, misguided cops and lawyers. Ryoken supposes not everyone can be expected to understand their brilliant vision of a future free from technological control, and so the dissenters must be tamed and absorbed the hard way.

Today is just a routine check on the progress of the men he has constricting one of the East neighborhoods. Not something he would usually be bothered with, since it’s typical grunt shit, but it gives him an excuse to escape the Headquarters. Ever since last week, when their hunt of ten years finally brought in some success and few  _ minor  _ injuries, the Second and the Second Guardians have been breathing down his neck. Getting out unsupervised and into the city is a welcome relief from their agitated attention, but it doesn't make the work any less dull. He lets his henchmen handle most of it, spreading them out to remind the locals exactly who protects them from Sol’s tyranny, and naturally collect their rightful due. It’s all very unrefined, but there’s a value to be had in the old fashioned tactics; the only true way to combat a technological empire is to strike at what Wifi and data can’t control: human minds and hearts. 

That doesn’t mean Ryoken enjoys it. 

But the usual slog takes a turn for the interesting when his back meets the floor  _ hard _ ; the concrete almost as unforgiving as the cold steel nipping his neck. There’s a duller, throbbing pain too; his injured shoulder protesting its sudden introduction to the alley’s concrete. There’s the gleam of a switch knife in the bottom of his vision, but his eyes are caught the face of his assailant. 

Green eyes blaze down on him, brilliant as untempered absinthe and just as intoxicating. A thrill of lust courses through his veins—a child’s fascination matured into unrelenting desire. 

“Don’t move.” The man commands. He has a cold, firm voice that matches the uncomplicated ruthless manner with which he grips his knife. His fingers on the handle are steady, not shaking at all—and  _ oh _ , he has such delicate hands, elegant even as one digs through Ryoken’s pockets for weapons. 

He finds the pistol and the boxes and he casts them to the side, well out of reach with a look of slight distaste. Ryoken mourns the loss of them, but has to appreciate the way the man’s brow furrows imperceptibly. With Ryoken apparently disarmed, the man gains confidence, and settles more firmly upon him—apparently not realizing he’s sitting right on Ryoken’s dick, but well, who’s complaining. It’s sadly not everyday he gets to be between a gorgeous man’s slender thighs. 

Slowly, careful not to bring any attention to the movement, he twists his ring around so it faces the inside of his palm, hiding the infamous sigil from view. There’s little he can do about the tattoo on his hand, though. 

The man is staring down at him balefully and speaks with a voice full of demanding disdain. “What is Hanoi doing here? What are you scum after?” Unbothered, Ryoken takes his opponent’s measure: jade eyes, green and black jacket, hood pulled over his hair, and a surgical mask obscuring his face. His assailant matches the descriptions in the reports perfectly.

So,  _ this _ is the infamous, dreaded Playmaker, vigilante of Japan’s streets. Ryoken hadn’t thought the man terrorizing his lackies would be so attractive.

“I feel like I should be asking that to you. This is our territory now.” Ryoken weighs his words carefully, but let's them flow casually. Playmaker’s eyes narrow, and he casts a brief glance around, obviously wary of the reminder of potential backup. Ryoken uses Playmaker’s distraction to shift his hand further, but he overestimates himself. In an instant, Playmaker's free hand seizes his own in a vice grip. His hand is warm and worn, fingers rough as he drags the tattoo into view.

“Spreading like rot.” Playmaker swipes his thumb over the triangle, and Ryoken feels a rush of heat going unfortunately south. The reports didn’t prepare him for this. “You’re important, then?” He’s never been so glad to be wearing the mask, which thankfully hides what must be a look of baffled arousal. 

“Only if you want me to be.” Ryoken says, trying for disaffected. It comes out as breathy instead. The knife presses deeper, cutting into Ryoken’s skin, as Playmaker glares down at him. Ryoken forces himself to relax against the ground. He ignores the sharp pain by focusing on the warmth of the other’s hand on his own.

“Why is Hanoi here? What are you after?” He can feel blood sluggishly dripping down his neck. It’s such a small cut that it’s rather sexy. Ryoken’s heart is pounding for all the wrong reasons. “Answer me or I’ll slit your throat.”

“Isn’t it obvious? We’re here to liberate the people here from Sol.” He searches for Sol’s insignia on Playmaker’s clothes, but there’s nothing. Spectre’s suspicions about a third party’s involvement were right. “I could  _ liberate _ you too, if you’d like.” Ryoken layers his voice with implications. It’s hard to tell in the low light and under Playmaker’s disguise, but there’s red flushing the edges of Playmaker’s face. 

Sadly, Playmaker refuses to play along, with his eyes set on Ryoken’s mask. His grip on the knife is steady, but his grip on Ryoken’s hand loosens. 

“Don’t give me that bullshit. You scum are nothing but thugs.” He’s flustered, probably only just recognizing the compromising position they’re in. And that means he’s distracted.

“Got a bit of a grudge, do we?” Under his mask, Ryoken smirks, and his ring bursts into clear orange Fllame that has Playmaker flinching back with a pained yelp. But Ryoken doesn’t let him go, seizing his wrist to drag him back down and knocking the knife from Playmaker’s other hand with a viper-fast strike. He flips them with a firm jolt that has Playmaker underneath him, wrists pinned to the ground. 

Ryoken likes this position just as much. His assailant struggles against him, and he shifts his weight forward to contain him. And, well, the resulting friction is its own perk. “If you wanted my attention all you had to do was bat those pretty eyes of yours and ask for it.”

Playmaker’s green eyes are wide and flickering between Ryoken’s mask and his blazing ring. “Sky Flames? _You’re_ _Revolver?_ ” Ryoken appreciates how pale Playmaker goes as he realizes he was trapped under the dreaded Underboss of Hanoi. 

“I’m a little insulted you didn't recognize me.” Ryoken leans in to get a better look at the elusive assassin plaguing his organization. With Playmaker bucking against him, he has no hands free to pull off the mask that was in the way. If he wasn’t wearing a mask himself, he could’ve used his mouth.

“Get off of me!” Playmaker snarls, jerking up in a rough, attempted head butt. Ryoken forced him back down with some effort. “I’m going to make you bastards pay for what you did to us!” 

It’s one of those days, clearly. Ryoken laughs, like Revolver would, watching the assassin’s expression tense further in the face of his mockery. “You’re going to need to be more specific.” Misguided avengers were a dime a dozen in the Mafia. It was a little disappointing to find out the rumored Playmaker was just another fool.

At least he looks fantastic, squirming under Ryoken like a leashed beast. “After what you  _ did  _ to me _ ,  _ you dare— _ ”  _

“Did I fuck you? No, that can’t be it.” Playmaker goes completely rigid, and Ryoken is having too much fun. “I would certainly,” he let his eyes drag up and down the svelte form settled underneath him, “remember  _ that. _ ” Playmaker flushes fully red, eyes wide. It’s a good look on him. “Though I would love to  _ personally _ do some things to you right now.” Ryoken pushes his leg in between Playmaker’s and punctuates his words with a deliberate, slow roll of his hips.

It's just to mess with him, Ryoken reasons. To keep Playmaker off his game. Except, it feels fantastic, which probably just goes to show that Ryoken needs to get laid. 

His assassin jerks forward again with a furious snarl, and the hood is left behind, revealing a crown of fiery locks. His hair looks like dancing flames, all vibrant yellow, orange and pink, and Ryoken is almost disappointed. It’s a stunning look, but he would have preferred blue. 

Though the autumn colors are nice too, the winter tones were so much more appealing.

“Get off of me!” Playmaker attempts to twist out of his grip, and it’s a struggle to keep hold of him. He makes some odd movements with his hands, something glinting off his fingers, and suddenly there’s something slicing into Ryoken’s wrist. It’s wire, thinner than fishing line, and it bites into his skin painfully. Reflexively, he jerks his hand away and tries to pull the wire off with the other, and Playmaker’s foot lands solidly in his chest, shoving him off with a rough kick. Instead of constricting, the wire lengthens as Ryoken stumbles to his feet a meter away, and there’s luminous purple light enveloping Playmaker’s hands.

Cloud Flames. 

Ryoken can’t help but smile, even as he hooks a finger under the wire and burns it away with his own Flames. Clouds always are the feistiest, and Ryoken has always had a bit of a soft spot for that. 

Even so, Ryoken wastes no time and sprints for his gun, sweeping it off the concrete. It fits back in his hand like puzzle piece clicking into place, and he raises it to his opponent with the taste of victory on his tongue.

Playmaker is back on his feet as well, his chest heaving with each harsh breath and his brow twisted with fury. His sleeve has ridden up, revealing an unusual bracelet bearing what looks like a spool of thread. The bracelet blazes with violet fire, bursting forth from a ring on Playmaker’s finger.

And the whole world freezes. A shudder rakes through Ryoken’s body, and instinctively he takes a step back, his aim wavering. He can’t tear his eyes away from the ring.

“That’s—?”

It’s a silver band identical to his own, bearing the intricate crest of Hanoi: an scalene triangle constructed from six smaller triangles. The only difference being that while his triangle was entirely amber, Playmaker’s was silver except for one single amethyst triangle.

Ryoken knows that ring. And he knows the one he gave that ring to would never give it to anyone else.

But there it is, alight with blazing violet flames on Playmaker’s finger.

The tree facts come together in his head: Playmaker held a grudge against Hanoi, Playmaker has Cloud Flames, and Playmaker has a one-of-a-kind Hanoi ring.

“S—Six?” He hears himself say, over the roaring in his ears. Playmaker—Six?—shifts backwards, with a familiar look of alarm in his eyes, and Ryoken stumbles forward, his gun forgotten at his side. Playmaker takes another step back, and his arm snaps to the side, a fishing line complete with hook dangling from his fingertips. With one fierce slash, the hook is streaking towards Ryoken’s face, and he throws up an arm in reflex. 

The attack doesn’t connect, and when Ryoken opens his eyes, Playmaker—Six?—is gone.

But Ryoken’s mind is spinning in wild circles. Green eyes, a violet ring, a promise, revenge—

_ I finally found you again. _

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**_Den City, Japan_ **

**_11:50:46, June 12, 20X9_ **

**_Designation: Fujiki Yusaku, aka PLAYMAKER_ **

**_Affiliation: ???_ **

**_Occupation: Vigilante_ **

**_Flame Type: Cloud_ **

His feet skid across gravel as he hits the rooftop hard and rolls to keep up the momentum. Yusaku dashes for the edge of the building and launches himself over the edge, extending his wires to catch on the fire escape set below. Air rushes past his face as he swings neatly into the alleyway, releasing just as his feet brush the concrete. Not slowing down, he sprints to the truck nestled at the other end of the alley, using the remote in his pocket to unlock the back. He bursts into the truck, and the man waiting there jumps nearly out of his skin.

“Yu—Yusaku?” Kusanagi gasps, his fingers stilling on the hilt of the blade he had reflexively reached for. Yusaku climbs into the truck and slams the door behind him, after one last cautious glance back. It doesn’t seem like he’s been followed. “You’re back already?”

“Time to go.” Yusaku nods to the front of the truck, feeling his pounding heart easing down in his chest. Fleeing the scene had been instinctual, more reflex than thought. A voice is echoing in his head, the endless reiteration of _Six, Six, Six._

“Sure? What happened?” Kusanagi asks as he makes his way to the front and settles in the driver’s seat of the repurposed, repainted ambulance they operated out of. Yusaku starts to pull off his jacket and mask, discarding them on the counter. He takes a hand-towel from the rack and wets it in the sink, then tousles his hair with it. The temp dye he sprayed in comes out easily, stainlessly: a mundane marvel of modern technology.

Revolver’s hair had been red. Yusaku shouldn’t have let that fool him.

_Six?_

“I met Revolver.” Yusaku lets himself slump against the wall, sliding down until he hits the bottom of the truck. The towel slung over his head hangs low, swallowing up half his vision.

Kusanagi makes a concerned sound, and the truck roars to life. For a moment, neither of them say anything.

Then, “And?” Kusanagi prompts, and Yusaku’s eyes slide shut. On the inside of his eyelids is Revolver’s white mask, a wicked smile carved in the mockery of a human face, like a Roman statue. But Revovler had been much warmer than a statue, and Yusaku’s skin still tingles with the memory of it. Yusaku twists the ring around his finger, then forces himself to pull it off. It looks so innocuous in the palm of his hand, silver and a little abstract, nothing like the grisly souvenir of six years of horror it truly is.

“And nothing. We fought.” Yusaku says. Kusanagi doesn’t need to know that there wasn’t much fighting.

“I guess that mean Hanoi’s completely taken over the neighborhood. All that work for nothing.” There’s a note of despair in Kusanagi’s voice. A tiredness that Yusaku does not understand. To Kusanagi, they’re fighting a seemingly hopeless war everyday, battling away the threads of Hanoi’s creeping influence however they can. What the two of them share in determination and stubborn grudges is not matched in their mental conditioning. But what Kusanagi lacks in discipline, he makes up for in dedication. “Doesn’t seem like anybody’s coming after us, though.” Kusanagi keeps checking the mirrors, staring behind them as if bad news will come careening around a corner. But the streets remain quiet, sluggish and warm with mid-morning sunlight and the occasional late commuter.

Yusaku should have figured as much. _That person_ is letting him go again.

But in the moment it hadn’t occurred to him at all. Just being recognized had put him in flight mode.

 _Pathetic_. Bristling with frustration, Yusaku strings the ring on the chain he keeps around his neck: a reminder of what the ring really is, lest he ever be tempted to forget.

Successfully stripped of his disguise, Yusaku crawls into the passenger seat and collapses against the window. His hands are shaking still, but maybe if he acts tired enough, Kusanagi won’t comment.

“You forgot to take off your eyeliner.” His getaway driver comments instead, with an eyebrow quirked and an uneasy smile. Yusaku glares at him, and Kusanagi just grins apologetically. “Do you want to go home?”

The mission isn’t off, but they will need to take time to regroup. They have been lurking around the neighborhood, Kirihagiya, for days, chasing Hanoi thugs off local businesses and threatening Hanoi’s drug dealers. Clearly, their efforts haven’t amounted to much, but Yusaku will not give up so easily. Every bit of territory they can keep out of Hanoi’s hands, every neighborhood they can chase them out of, matters. He will have to back, to defend the few businesses and residents that are still holding out against Hanoi's demands. 

Except, now Revolver probably expects him in Kirihagiya. And going back would risk walking right into a trap, something Yusaku has spent the past four years trying to avoid. Being unpredictable and untraceable has been Playmaker's greatest advantage, as it allows him to strike anywhere and everywhere within Hanoi's sphere of influence.

But it had been so _easy_ to catch Revolver by surprise. And Revolver is supposed to be Hanoi’s strongest. If Yusaku could so easily ambush the head of the snake, teeth and all, didn’t that make the rest of the body fair game?

Maybe, just maybe, it’s finally time.

“Kusanagi-san,” Yusaku says, and Kusanagi watches him curiously as he once again brings out the ring. It’s light, for being such a burden, but there’s three reasons he’s held on to it for four long years. “I’ve been thinking,” Revolver’s voice is still muttering in his head: _Six. Six. Six._ He hasn’t been called that in so long, but he’s spent every night planning his inevitable return. “Isn’t it time to go back?”

Kusanagi frowns. “So you do want to go home?”

“Back _there._ ” Yusaku clarifies, watching the way Kusanagi’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. His knuckles go completely white.

“Yusaku.” Kusanagi says his name very carefully.

“I caught Revolver by surprise. It wasn’t even difficult.”

“ _Yusaku._ ” There’s a note of warning in Kusanagi’s voice now, but Yusaku will not silenced.

“It’s been four years, I’m ready now.”

“Yusaku, it’s too dangerous.”

Yusaku presses his lips together. How far does he need to push before Kusanagi gives in? It’s pointless to pull punches. “And what about your _brother_? What about him!”

Any mention of Kusanagi’s brother triggers a reaction, varying from understated misery to violent outbursts of frustrated grief. The response is near instantaneous, Kusanagi’s voice loud and tight and echoing in the small space. “I can’t risk losing you _too!”_ Kusanagi slams down on the brakes and they come to a jerking halt with a screech against the pavement. Yusaku grips the ring in a fist, watching Kusanagi shake in his seat.

“As i just said, I do not believe there is any significant risk, and if there is, isn’t your brother worth it?” “A compromise then. Just extraction; I’ll get in, get Jin, and get out.”

“We don’t even know if he’s _there._ ”

“So if I get confirmation, it’s fine?” _Six,_ Revolver had said. He would know where the others were too.

“ _That’s not what I said.”_

Revolver and the rest of Hanoi’s thugs would be expecting him in Kirihagiya. Yusaku could count on that.

* * *

**_Hanoi Headquarters, Den City, Japan_ **

**_3:50:48, June 12, 20X9_ **

**_Designation: Kogami Ryoken, aka REVOLVER_ **

**_Affiliation: Hanoi_ **

**_Occupation: Underboss_ **

**_Flame Type: Sky_ **  


All that remains of the encounter is the bloodstained switchblade that was left discarded on the ground. Ryoken had collected it, and now he sits back at home in his suite, tracing the shape of it in his palm. It offers up no answers, but it’s handle is worn from use and the blade is polished underneath his dried blood.

Six always did take good care of his equipment. Ryoken would watch him, once upon a time, as he meticulously cleaned and sharpened his _kusarigama,_ gliding over the _kama_ ’s gleaming edge with a whetstone pressed under thin fingers. Playmaker hadn’t been carrying Six’s signature weapon, with its gleaming ebony chains or the wicked sickle attached to them, but that would be too obvious, wouldn’t it? The wire is much more subtle, and probably much lighter too.

And less deadly.

He pockets the knife, secure in the depths of his coat, and fingers the sore, shallow cut on his throat. The wound stings under his fingertips, bleeding sluggishly. He will have to explain it to the others later, and Spectre will probably insist on healing it with his Sun Flames.

Ryoken wants it to scar. Wouldn’t that be something?

His phone vibrates: a reminder that cuts short his musings. It’s time to report in to the Boss.

He doesn’t drag his feet as he traverses the hallways to his father’s office, but it’s a close thing. Instead he takes a winding route, trying to buy himself time to get his story straight. Their base is more modern and barren than most family’s headquarters, with it’s cold metal walls and long, echoing hallways, but they have never been ones for tradition. The spartan barrenness of it all was near suffocating, most days, with the dim lights and the ring of his feet against the floor.

Ryoken had visited many old, traditional houses, with _tatami_ mats and sliding paper doors as a child, and had run silently on their softer floors, skidding in his socks. It had been a simpler time, before the culling of Japanese Yakuza and their crime-ridden families.

His father never liked those houses.

All too soon he’s standing before his father’s rooms, which doubled as his office ever since his health started deteriorating. Ryoken knocks three times, and the door slides open almost silently.

Inside is a room as barren as the halls, empty space only interrupted by the essentials: a desk, a bed, and a wheelchair to get from one to the other.

His father is at the desk, wrinkled hands clasped on the polished wood. He looks more and more withered everyday, but his voice is still strong.

“Revolver.”

Ryoken stands straighter. “Boss.”

His father inspects him with discerning eyes that linger on the new scuffs on his white coat. By now, one of Ryoken’s own men have probably submitted a report noting the continuation of disruptive activity in Kirihagiya, which Ryoken had failed to supervise. He had been so addled by the encounter with Playmaker that he’d lost track of time and failed to regroup with his patrolling men, and undoubtedly his uncharacteristic tardiness and distraction had found their way into the records.

“What happened?” There is no fooling his father’s meticulous appraisal, but Ryoken has learnt that the less he gives his father to work with, the better. So he keeps his replies short and concise.

“I finally met Playmaker.” His father watches him with eyes that are still sharp, but Ryoken does not quail under his gaze. “He got away, unfortunately.” That Ryoken did not attempt a pursuit is irrelevant.

Kogami watches him, but the tension around his eyes seems to ease. “We knew he would target you eventually.” His father’s gaze falls to the knick on Ryoken’s throat, not quite concealed under the high collar of his jacket. Kogami’s mouth tilts down with disapproval, and Ryoken feels a fresh rush of shame in the face of his disappointment. Suddenly, the cut doesn’t seem nearly as endearing. “Why didn’t you have one of your Guardians with you?”

“Armature and Bellwether are still on their missions in China and Italy. Spectre is investigating the new SOL assassin, and Cipher and Esquire are on security detail.”

“Isn’t having two Guardians on the security detail overzealous? Take one with you next time.”

“If I may, Father, I would prefer not to leave the Headquarters undermanned.”

His father stares at him, his gold eyes cold. Ryoken keeps his face carefully blank, trying not to give anything away.

“Then it would be advantageous to have six Guardians instead of just five. How is the retrieval of the stolen Cloud ring progressing? Have you located the former Six yet?”

“No.” Ryoken lies, remembering Six’s fierce green eyes. In his memory, Six is always young, with a face round with baby fat but hollow with hunger. But those eyes belong to an older, sharper face now, hidden under a mask and shadowed by a hood.

Kogami’s eyes slide shut for a moment, his hard exterior faltering for very briefly. Ryoken makes the mental note to ask Kyoko for the most recent examination results, but all too soon his father is back to business. “In the meantime, I advise you again to select a new Cloud Guardian. The ring is only half the equation.” Ryoken had expected them, but the words still elicit an immediate feeling of revulsion, and exhaustion. It’s an argument they’ve had countless times over the years, since Six left.

And Ryoken understands his father’s wishes, but he can’t answer them. He can’t replace Six, now more than ever. Something of his adamant refusal must show on his face, as his father frowns. “You still refuse, then?”

“I just… need more time.” Six must be somewhere in Den City; Playmaker has been active for too long and too consistently to be operating from elsewhere. All Ryoken has to do is find him.

“It has been four years already, Ryoken. It’s time.”

“There are no suitable candidates.” Six is eighteen now. Could he be attending a local university? Ryoken would have to comb the school registration records later.

“Actually, there is someone of interest.” A manila folder is offered to him, plucked from the desk’s drawers, and Ryoken takes it reluctantly. He does not think about how badly his father’s hands shake. “I think he’s worth your consideration.” If only to humor his father, Ryoken flips open the folder and briefly glances over the information inside. Pictured within is just someone else he’ll have to get rid of, somehow.

“Thank you, father.” Ryoken says, and _finally,_ the conversation moves forward.

Kogami shifts in his seat, turning it to face the reinforced windows lining the far wall. “In the meantime, the Hanoi Project is moving on to its next phase. Since you retrieved the Arcobaleno, we’ve begun production of the first box.”

The project being ready to move forward explains his father’s insistence on the matter of the Cloud Guardian.

But once Six returns, there will be no more problems.

The rest of the meeting passes uneventfully, and Ryoken makes his escape to the lower levels of the Headquarters. He retreats to the training rooms, mind already turning back to how quickly and nimbly Playmaker had moved. Before Ryoken had even a chance to register the vigilante’s presence, he had been on his back with the knife at his neck.

And while Six had always been astounding, _that_ was unacceptable.

“The old man giving you trouble again?” Esquire’s voice brings him to a stop in the hallway, and Ryoken pauses to allow his Storm Guardian to catch up from behind him. The words cause a spike of aggravation, and he turns to meet the younger man with a cold glare.

“Be quiet. Your disrespect is unacceptable.”

Esquire does not even balk, and his lilac eyes remain cold and his voice empty. “Of course, sir. My apologies.” There is no sarcasm in his tone, and yet the air almost drips with it. The next words come out more genuine, however. “Is everything alright? Is there a problem with that new project? Or with that lady we caught?"

Right. Ryoken had forgotten about their guest in the cells. Interrogating her had turned up next to nothing they didn't know already, but considering her reputation, Ryoken doubted such measly tidbits of information were all she knew. 

But neither she nor the lab's most recent experiments is the matter at hand. Ryoken motions for the Storm Guardian to walk alongside him as he continues the journey to the training rooms. “Esquire, back when you were Five, you were close with Six, weren’t you.” It’s not a question. Ryoken remembers clearly how Five and Six took to each other, at least, as much as Six took to anyone. They arrive at the training rooms, and step inside an immense gymnasium lined with equipment, weapons, and weights. Esquire immediately gravitates towards the sandbags, but Ryoken sets his eyes on the sparring ring and he drags Esquire along with him.

“No more than you were, sir.” The words are too flat to be an accusation or a dismissal. Just a statement of fact; Ryoken himself had been closest with Six.

“Do you miss him?” Ryoken asks as they step into the ring. Both their hands are empty of weapons, but that’s far from fair. Hand-to-hand combat it Esquire’s specialty.

“Not at all.” Esquire smiles blandly. Ryoken watches his face carefully, noting the atypical shine in his lilac eyes. It’s a lie, just as much as the bland, dutiful facade Esquire wears each day, and part of Ryoken aches with how fake it is. But the moment passes, and Esquire drops into a bouncy, ready stance, stiff movements turning fluid and the cautious humility on his face giving way to hard determination. “Sure you don’t want your guns?”

“Don’t need them. Consider it a handicap.” Ryoken says, allowing a smirk to cut across his face, anticipation for battle heating his blood. He takes his own stance, and imagines a different, more calculating opponent: one armed with wire, chains, and blades. In response, he must be quicker, anticipate better, and move more aggressively. All three of those skills are Esquire’s specialties, so Ryoken watches carefully as the Guardian shifts around him, swaying as he waits for the best moment to strike. Esquire always likes to strike first, to put his opponent on the defensive, all while preempting his opponent’s strategies.

Next time he meets Playmaker, Ryoken will do the same.

Esquire comes at him from the left, with a punch so quick is may as well be a fist on a piston. Ryoken shifts right and parries, pushing aside the extended arm to get inside Esquire’s guard. He moves to strike the solar plexus, but Esquire is two steps ahead, shifting to swipe at Ryoken’s legs. Ryoken is forced to withdraw a step, and a flurry of punches descend upon him. He parries the first three while shifting his own stance, bracing his feet for balance, and by the sixth he slides under Exquire’s uppercut, catching his opponent’s extended right wrist and fitting his left shoulder under Esquire’s armpit. In an instant, he’s dragging Esquire over with a hip toss, and Esquire hits the mat with a satisfactory _thud._

Not something that would work against a mid-range fighter like Six, but the concept is solid enough. If he can catch hold of one of Six’s chains, or _Playmaker’s_ wires, he could theoretically attempt something similar.

“Harsh.” Esquire groans from the mat.

Ryoken stares down at him with a smile he knows is full of distaste. “Was that you holding back, or are you really so pathetic?”

Ezquire’s eyebrows pinch together, his facade faltering briefly as anger flashes across his face. It smooths over quickly, but there’s a competitive fire in his eyes now.

Good. Ryoken needs him to put up a proper fight. After all, Playmaker certainly will.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter, and Yusaku's part is kind of sparse. But considering the majority of the story is gonna be from his point of view in literally all the following chapters, I think that's kinda fair.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

**_Den City, Japan_ **

**_11:24:06, June 14, 20X9_ **

**_Designation: Fujiki Yusaku, aka PLAYMAKER,_ ** **_aka “Six”_ **

**_Affiliation: ???_ **

**_Occupation: Vigilante_ **

**_Flame Type: Cloud_ **

Café Nagi has no set schedule, no set route. It’s no doubt suspicious, honestly, but being predictable and easily tracked is too big a risk. They each carefully monitor the network too, even restaurant recommendations and food blogs, to ensure there’s not enough data on their whereabouts for someone to realize the connection between their humble food truck and Playmaker’s known appearances.

Even then, to be thorough, they alternate between the truck and the repurposed ambulance, since disguised as a computer repair service. It’s never enough to have just one cover, after all.

Today, they arrive in the neighborhood in all their yellow, decorated glory and set up shop on the edges of a pharmacy parking lot, out of the way and against the wall. People of all kinds mill by: white collar workers on lunch break, frazzled looking youths with bags under their eyes, vagrants with their wrists covered a bit too conspicuously, barely concealing the marks of Another abuse.

Yusaku watches them all with seemingly lazy eyes, searching for anyone that may be out of place or paying them too much attention, or maybe even a glimpse of white hair. But business is slow and for the most part they go ignored, even long after Yusaku has carried out the tables and wiped them down.

In all fairness, it’s technically still a bit early for hot dogs.

Will Ryoken come today, looking for him? Unconsciously, he reaches up and fiddles with the chain and ring hidden under his collar, wondering. Even if he does, will Yusaku even recognize him, or his voice? What does he look like now, under Revolver’s mask? Is his hair _always_ red?

There are so many things he no longer knows. He never thought that would bother him.

“Yusaku!” Kusanagi calls from behind the grill, “Set up the WiFi, won’t you?”

Recognizing the ‘all clear’ signal, Yusaku retreats back into the depths of the truck. He slips the ring from its chain and slides it onto his middle finger; it's been a long time since he stopped wearing it on his thumb, and yet it still feels foreign against his knuckle. He’s carried it with him for so many years, turned to it in his every moment of doubt, and still it never seems any more familiar.

Ignoring the agitation itching in his gut, Yusaku reaches for the boxes chained to his belt, inserting the ring into each. All three black boxes burn purple, bursting open with violet flashes of light. Three spiders tumble out, suspended by thin strips of web. Each one is entirely black and thin limbed, with bulging thoraxes marked only by faint violet stripes; just a glimpse of them makes one uneasy, an instinctive revulsion inherited over thousands of years.

Kusanagi stands a fair distance away as his own ring ignites with wispy indigo flames. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he coats each arachnid with Mist Flames, turning tarantula-sized terrors into simple daddy long-legs.

“All set,” Kusanagi murmurs, as Yusaku directs the little spiders out the window. They start spinning their webs immediately, skittering from the truck to the alley wall. Yusaku pours a little more Flame into the ring, and the three spiders shine briefly as they multiply; three to six, six to twelve, and more. They propagate along the walls, leaving behind an almost imperceptible interconnected web.

“We’re on the Net,” Kusanagi jokes weakly. He says something similar every time they perform this trick. Each time, the words fall a little more flat. Today, though, there’s a concerned furrow in his brow.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just...thinking.” The older man turns his eyes to the computers hidden behind the back paneling, shifting on his feet uneasily. “My online friend gave me the idea for this,” he motions at the web, “but lately I haven’t heard from her.” Ghost Girl, Yusaku recalls: Kusanagi's strange pen pal that excels at concealment illusions and information gathering, and consequentially has a bit of a reputation among the Mafia. Someone somewhere always seems to want her dead.

Maybe it all finally caught up with her. “Are you worried?” He asks, not particularly caring. It doesn't matter to him.

Recognizing the cold look in his eyes, Kusanagi shakes his head. “We don’t have the luxury of worrying about other people, Yusaku.” It's simply a matter of practicality. Even if Ghost Girl was more of an ally than the distant acquaintance she really is, they don't have the resources to waste on trying to find her. “Sorry for bringing it up.”

There's something dejected about the way Kusanagi's shoulders slump, but Yusaku turns his eyes away and refocuses. The pulse of his Flames has spread out throughout the entire block, and the radius is still rapidly increasing. Sensory data starts filtering in: the smoky scent of the gyro place, the gurgle of voices filtering out of office building vents, walls of jaggedly cut rock and the scrape of rust.

Closing his eyes, Yusaku listens.

* * *

**_Den City, Japan_ **

**_11:30:37, June 14, 20X9_ **

**_Designation: Kogami Ryoken, aka REVOLVER_ **

**_Affiliation: Hanoi_ **

**_Occupation: Underboss_ **

**_Flame Type: Sky_ **

Two nights have passed, but they didn’t move quickly. Ryoken followed his normal routine with zealous dedication, but it only masked his distraction. He’s been counting the minutes, agitatedly working himself in circles.

He returns to Kirihagiya as soon as he has the time, under the flimsy excuse of checking their progress there. They’ll call him the moment Playmaker reappears, his men assure him, but that’s not good enough. Playmaker works too quickly for that.

But being in the neighborhood doesn’t magically make Playmaker appear. If it was that easy, Ryoken supposes, he’d have brought Six home ages ago. And there’s only so many times he can circle the area before even he loses vigilance. By now he’s passed every storefront and lot twice and seen every inhabitant, even the stray cats and the deli’s infesting rats. That, at least, is a health-code violation he can blackmail the owner with.

...Maybe it’s time for a break. There's a food truck about a block back, and while it looks seedy, the food probably won't kill him.

“If we’re getting lunch, can’t we at least eat at a place with four walls and running water?” A nasally voice has him glancing over his shoulder, and his Sun Guardian peers back mischievously. Spectre is in high spirits compared to him, cheerfully following behind as Ryoken leads them in circles. He’s been perusing files all morning as they walked, but somehow still could read Ryoken’s mind like his thoughts were what was printed across those papers.

“Not if those four walls have rats.” Ryoken shoots back, but he has a point. Why take over all the businesses in an entire city district if not to take full advantage of their restaurants? He takes the next turn, cutting through the alley back towards where he left the car and his men.

Seeing he’s won the round, Spectre waves a file at him. “The candidate your father recommended is quite interesting.” Ryoken doubts that, ducking underneath a cobweb. Has this side of town always had this many spiders? Spectre just walks right through them, unfazed. “Ever heard of someone that goes by the epithet _Blood Shepherd?_ ” A paper is thrust in Ryoken’s face; the same one he barely glanced at in his father’s office. There’s a profile printed there, of a stern-faced man with startlingly fuchsia hair. “Skilled bounty hunter, Cloud Type, gun fetish—he’s just your type, Ryoken-sama.” Spectre summarizes the man’s admittedly impressive credentials easily. “No history with any other _famiglia_ , either.”

His father likes to see that in his subordinates, always looking to avoid conflicts of loyalty or interest. Ryoken just finds it suspicious. “Then what exactly does a lone wolf want with us? Proud men like that don’t swear fealty so easily.”

Spectre’s smile fades into a considering look, and he turns back to the file with a more critical eye.

Ryoken couldn’t care less. They aren’t here for Blood Shepherd, they’re here for his _actual_ Cloud Guardian.

Well, Ryoken is. He’s not entirely sure why Spectre is here, actually. “Forget about that for now. I don’t recall asking you to accompany me today, Spectre.”

“Your father did.” Spectre replies, tucking away the files with a distracted look in his eyes. “Three Guardians on guard duty is a bit much, don’t you think?” No. If Ryoken could have all of his Guardians protecting his father at all times, he would. Again reading his displeased expression with ease, Spectre gives him an apologetic smile. “You don’t need to worry, both Cipher and Esquire are back at HQ. Armature and Bellwether will be returning soon anyway.” With both of their missions wrapping up,  the Lightning and Rain Guardians will be returning within the week. All their reports have been favorable, so not even Ryoken knows why he still feels so uneasy.

And speaking of reports: “What about your investigation into that Sol assassin?”

Spectre grins. “Already finished. I didn’t even need to do much.” He waves Ryoken closer and brings up something on his phone, showing him some kind of video. A perky voice comes through the speakers as a man crawls on screen, dragging his body over the concrete of a dimly lit pathway. He’s struggling with each centimeter, his breaths fast and shallow but also weak. A white-booted foot comes down on the man’s head mercilessly, as the camera shifts to reveal a blue-haired girl, her features garishly embellished with face paint. Spectre pauses the video there, on her coquettish smile. “The twisted little bitch livestreams her kills.” There’s delight clear in Spectre’s voice as he resumes the video.

On screen, Sol’s Blue Angel puts a needle through the man’s jugular, and her victim drowns in his own blood.

For a long moment, Ryoken can only stare at the darkening phone screen, even after the video ends. “You’re serious.”

“Very.” Spectre rarely looks this excited by anything besides greenhouses. “Her name’s Zaizen Aoi, and she has quite the fan following on the dark side of the Web.”

“Zaizen as in…” Ryoken really doesn’t need to ask.

“Correct. Seems like the little sister of SOL’s guard dog is quite the attention whore.”

Disgusting. There are apparently no lows Sol’s dogs won’t drop to. “Ruin her.”

When he heard Sol had a new assassin active in Den City, Ryoken had almost been intrigued. He thought that maybe—well, it didn’t matter, now that he knows where Six is and what he's been up to all these years. This particular matter is nothing more than a stupid girl playing around.

How disappointing.

At least Spectre is entertained. “I already have,” he says, tucking away his phone with a pleased smile packed with so much sadism that it has Ryoken grinning back. “Let’s just say Sol should keep their bitches on tighter leashes.”

 _They aren’t the only ones_ , Ryoken thinks, Playmaker’s fierce eyes burnt into his mind. His prey still hasn't appeared.

Is this what being stood up feels like?

* * *

**_Den City, Japan_ **

**_**_11:50:12_** , June 14, 20X9_ **

**_Designation: Fujiki Yusaku, aka PLAYMAKER,_ ** **_aka “Six”_ **

**_Affiliation: ???_ **

**_Occupation: Vigilante_ **

**_Flame Type: Cloud_ **

Spectre. Esquire, Armature, Bellwether. _Cipher._

Back when Yusaku had been _Six,_ not even Ryoken had earned his codename yet, but the others had spent many nights whispering to each other through the walls of their cells about what they wanted theirs to be. As if they couldn’t remember what their names were supposed to be.

It seems like they’ve all earned their code-names now. He doesn’t need to guess which one Spectre is; only Two took such abject pleasure in human suffering.

Opening his eyes, Yusaku starts the slow process of retracting his net. Most of the spiders, mere multiplications of his three Box Animals thanks to the propagation properties of his Cloud Flames, can simply be dispersed; he just has to be careful not to leave any Flame residue behind. But the original three must make their way back manually.

Revolver’s voice, a low pleasant timbre, echoes in his ears. It’s truly not that different from the voice of his memories, of a teenager with a sharp smile but sad eyes. Yusaku remembers it so clearly, as if he can still hear every word Ryoken has ever said to him.

And it seems like Ryoken remembers too, enough to remember one night of countlessly many others spent sneaking out together. If he shuts his eyes, Yusaku can still envision it: the dark woods, the faint hum of cicadas, and the gleam of moonlight off Ryoken’s gray jacket. The way bright eyes cut through the gloom and into his very soul each time they turned his way.

_“They’ve started brainstorming names for you guys, for when you’re older.” Ryoken tells him, tugging Yusaku along the edges of the training grounds. It’s the middle of the night and well past Yusaku’s curfew, but they’ve done this enough times to know when and where they have to keep quiet. Ryoken won’t let them be caught, not if it means Yusaku will be the one punished. “What do you think yours should be?”_

My name. My _real_ name. _Yusaku thinks, but keeps his mouth shut as he obediently trails in Ryoken’s footsteps. The older boy turns back to look at him, a challenge in his crystal eyes. “Dr. Genome wants to call you Haywire, since you’re defective.” A mocking edge creeps into Ryoken’s tone, derisive._

_Yusaku doesn’t take the bait and instead he turns his eyes on the synthetic forest built around them, hands itching for his kusarigama. Some part of him protests being out here without it._

_Ryoken drags him further into the trees, moving silently despite the artificial foliage and uneven ground. “I will come up with something better for you. What about the others?” Yusaku overhears the others talking about it often. Five was especially vocal about it: Crossfire, Hellfire, Backfire, etc. Anything to do with fire. He is so outspoken about it that at this point, Five is the least likely to get to choose his own name, besides Yusaku himself._

_Ryoken is evidently thinking along the same lines. “Choosing their own names is a privilege most of them won’t earn, but Father and the others will listen to me.” Two will be the only one who will get to select his own, Yusaku suspects, because of his near fanatical loyalty and unwavering competence. Maybe Three and Four, if they start performing better in battle, which is admittedly unlikely despite their best efforts._

_Besides Yusaku, only One is silent on the matter. But One is silent about most things, always staring dead-eyed into the distance and curling into himself whenever he’s off his feet. Once in a while, however, Yusaku has caught One rapidly scribbling into a little notebook he isn’t supposed to have. Only once has he managed a glimpse of what was being written, and it had looked to be complete nonsense._

_But Yusaku knows better, because he knows they both love puzzles: One always scores highest in problem-solving performance tests._

_Those scribbles have to be code._

_“Cipher.” Yusaku says, “One should be Cipher.”_

_“One isn’t going to get to chose. Even though he’s well-behaved, he almost always scores second-to-last.” Ryoken says plainly, as they emerge into the usual clearing. On the edge is the largest, tallest tree in the forest. Underneath it, Ryoken turns to him once more. “Which is especially unimpressive, considering the only person scoring lower than him is purposefully failing.”_

_There’s an accusation in Ryoken’s eyes, but Yusaku doesn’t look away from it. He isn’t ashamed of his scores; the more of a disappointment he is, the less competent he seems, the better._

_They stare at each other for a moment, at an impasse, before Ryoken starts to climb the tree. Older by two years, he’s already fifteen, and it shows. He pulls himself to the top, branch by branch, easily. Yusaku doesn’t have that kind of upper-body strength yet, but his speed and agility more than make up for it, and he mostly lets momentum carry him to the top boughs where Ryoken waits._

_They settle down side by side, a cold smile lingering on Ryoken’s mouth and a glint of approval in his gaze, and turn their eyes to stars._

Cipher. One, Yusaku used to know him as. Now, he knows him as Kusanagi Jin, a boy with a family that is still waiting for him to come home.

Kusanagi is suppressing his impatience well, entirely focused on monitoring the area for hostile signals while keeping a dutiful eye on the grill. But when Yusaku twists in his chair, the way Kusanagi’s eyes fly to his face betray his anxiety.

Yusaku doesn’t hold him in suspense: “Your brother is there.”

Kusanagi’s breath leaves him in a quiet rush. In an instant, he’s back in the front seat, starting the truck. “Well, then what are we waiting around here for?” The words are painfully casual, but Yusaku can see how white his knuckles are the steering wheel.

“My spiders.” Yusaku points out.

“Right.” Kusanagi slumps, his voice quivering slightly. “Right.” They can’t leave without them; it would be madness to attempt this without his Box Animals. They’ve been preparing for this moment for four years, and they can’t afford to squander those efforts by rushing now. No matter how desperately they have both been waiting for this moment, no matter how much they’ve been anticipating it with equal parts excitement and dread.

Over ten years ago, Yusaku had been dragged to that place, kicking and screaming. He could scarcely remember the kidnapping, or what life before was like, the memories lost somewhere underneath the years of torture, starvation, and agonizing training.

This will be the first and last time he returns to the Hanoi Headquarters willingly.

* * *

 


End file.
